Remembrance
by loobeyloo
Summary: A chance meeting with someone from his youth makes Hawke see certain events in his past in a different light.
1. Chapter 1

Airwolf

_This story is slightly different and again I have only borrowed the characters from Mr Bellisario and co. Any resemblence to real events, people or places is coincidental and typical of my rotten luck! Apologies abound if that is the case ..._

_**Airwolf -Remembrance.**_

Summer, 1984.

Stringfellow Hawke gently applied the brakes and allowed the borrowed Santini Air Jeep to come a smooth halt, then set the gear lever to neutral and secured the parking brake. He let out a deep, shoulder raising sigh, but made no effort to alight from the vehicle.

It was still early in the day, no-one else around and no other vehicles in the parking lot.

It was a beautiful morning, the sky a vast, cloudless canopy of azure, the sun a pulsing golden disk slowly climbing higher and higher on the horizon, a heat haze mingled with smog already shimmering over the urban sprawl that was the city of Angels.

It was going to be another scorching Californian day, but Stringfellow Hawke's mind was on none of this.

Still seated behind the steering wheel of the Jeep, clad in a new dark charcoal grey suit and crisp white shirt, to which he had added a simple narrow black neck tie, which was threatening to strangle him, piercing blue eyes shielded from the glare of the sun by his mirrored flying shades, Hawke did not see the glorious summer bursting into life around him, the immaculate lawns and litter free gravel parking lot, nor did he hear the birds chattering and warbling merrily in the boughs of the nearby trees, instead, all Stringfellow Hawke could focus on was death and destruction, his mind transporting him back to a day that he could not, nor would not ever forget.

He squeezed his eyes tightly shut, fighting against the memories, but it was futile. The vivid images kept flashing through his mind, like a bad movie, stuck in a loop ….

Glorious Technicolor and Stereophonic sound …..

Carrie-Ann, so young, so beautiful, long limbed, tan and slender looking breath taking in a pale lavender sun dress, her deep, topaz blue eyes sparkling with love and life, her long golden hair loose and flowing like a mane behind her as she ran to join him in the Jeep, her arms coming up around his neck, her warm soft lips eagerly seeking his in a tender kiss, as they began their journey that day.

Hawke squeezed his eye lids even tighter together, his nostrils assailed by the stench of gasoline and hot metal, not newly cut grass and blossom, and now the sound came, deafening him, the screech of brakes, of rending metal, Carrie's screams and then the deathly silence, the only sounds, the hiss of steam escaping from the radiator and the eerie tick tick clicking of a wheel spinning slowly to a halt.

Hawke let out a deep, shuddering breath and felt a hot tear slip from between his lashes and down his cheek and he quickly reached up to dash it away in frustration and irritation.

Anger flared, briefly, anger at his weakness, and drawing in a ragged breath he reached out to the seat beside him and collected the single long stem white rose and then climbed out of the Jeep, forcing his leaden legs to carry him the short distance up the path to Carrie-Ann Miller's grave.

The cemetery was quiet, peaceful, but Stringfellow Hawke's mind was still focused on that day sixteen years ago, when life had only just been beginning for him and his friends.

The summer of 1968, he had just finished his Army basic training at boot camp and in a few days time he would be shipping out to join his unit, and his brother, St John, out in Vietnam.

It had been a beautiful summer's day, just perfect to celebrate Carrie's eighteenth birthday ….

Hawke increased the length of his stride, wanting to get to his destination, so that he could get this over with for another year.

Still the memories crowded in, as, almost as though he were on auto pilot, Hawke's legs carried him on up the tidy gravel path, twisting and turning between pristine, newly cut lawns and lined with healthy trees flaunting their new summer foliage.

Birds twittered and chirruped but Hawke did not hear their songs, all he could hear was his own ragged breath, his erratic heart beat, and Carrie's soft, low moans of agony in the minutes after the Jeep came to a standstill and he finally came too after being knocked unconscious by the collision.

Trapped.

Now, Hawke's mind was caught up in the moments after the accident, when he realised that he was trapped in the upturned wreck of the Jeep, his head spinning and splitting with pain, blood, warm and sticky, oozing down one side of his face from a deep gash on his forehead, and his chest aching where it had been rammed against the steering wheel as the Jeep flipped over ….

Trapped in the moment when he realised that Carrie-Ann had not been so lucky, her beautiful slender body twisted and broken ….

So much blood he didn't know where it was all coming from ….

She had been crying, sobbing softly, gasping for breath and calling out his name, such desperation and fear in her voice, but he couldn't get to her from his side, and he couldn't get the door open.

He wasn't badly hurt, just winded, bloodied and bruised. The Jeep was upside down, and his side was pinned up against a wall were it had come to a rest, the metal of the door and frame twisted and bent, the window glass shattered, and no room for him to try to squeeze himself through, even if his legs hadn't been caught between the dash and the pedals.

Trapped.

All he could do was reach out and take Carrie's hand, squeezing it gently to reassure her that she was not alone, that he loved her, that help would be coming soon, weeping softly because he knew that she was dying, and there was nothing that he could do to help her.

Hawke had known the moment when Carrie-Ann had slipped away.

Her delicate little hand had slipped from between his fingers and she had let out one last, soft little breath. Then all had been quiet.

Stringfellow Hawke had never felt so helpless or alone in his life.

Help had eventually arrived, but it had been too late for Carrie-Ann Miller.

It had seemed to take an eternity to free the young man from the wreckage of the Jeep and get him into an ambulance and then to a hospital, an eternity when all that the young Stringfellow Hawke could do was think about what had happened, replaying it all over and over in his mind ….

And all that he could focus on was what he had lost.

Shocked and traumatised, all he could think was that it had been his fault.

He had killed the most beautiful thing in the world, the only thing that meant anything to him, aside from his brother St John, and his old friend, Dominic Santini.

Eventually, Dominic Santini had turned up at the hospital, shock making him white faced, but once he had ascertained that the young man's injuries were not life threatening, a concussion, a few bruised ribs and a gash on his head that required a few simple stitches, Dominic Santini had gathered the boy into his arms in a strong hug and held on to him tightly as the tears and sobs had consumed the young Hawke.

And, even to this day, Dominic was still holding on to him, supporting him, keeping him together, sane, always there to back him up, cajoling, advising, loving him as no other could, except St John.

He owed so much to Dominic.

Another debt that could only ever be repaid with friendship and love.

From that moment on, Dominic Santini had tried to make him understand that it had not been his fault, that there was nothing more that he could have done, to avoid the accident, or to help poor Carrie-Ann, but Hawke had been consumed with guilt and grief, and he had never really let go of either in the years that followed.

Everything had seemed to take a downward turn from that day on.

The funeral had been awful, Carrie's family, shocked and numb, trying not to stare at him with accusing eyes, resentful that he was still alive while their beautiful, vibrant daughter was gone, as he and Dominic Santini, stood solemnly at the back of the church, and then to one side of the group of mourners at the graveside, silently watching Carrie's coffin being lowered into the ground.

Then there had been the police enquiry, and explanations to his Army CO about why he would not be able to ship out with the rest of the unit, his deployment delayed because of the injuries he had sustained and the need to make his official statement to the police, all of which he had endured in numb, bewildered silence.

Hawke had eventually shipped out, joined St John, immersed himself in his duty and for a while things had been better, and then had come the day when St John had gone missing, never to be seen or heard of again, and for the young Stringfellow Hawke it had been the last straw, one heartache too many.

Now, his feet carried him on, up a little incline and then over the top and suddenly he was coming to a stop beside the familiar headstone.

He noticed immediately that there was a new addition beside Carrie's grave. Three in a line now, and his heart grew heavy in his chest when he read the inscription on the new grave marker.

Her father, Thomas, had died from cancer four years ago, and now he and Carrie-Ann were joined by her mother, Marion, who had passed away just a couple of months ago.

Hawke recalled having heard somewhere that she had suffered a massive stroke earlier in the year, and felt a knot of regret and guilt tighten his stomach as he again cursed himself for being a weak coward, unable to go and see her, face her, even after all this time, because he had known what he would see in her eyes.

Anger.

Accusation.

Resentment that he continued to live after destroying the only thing of beauty she had.

Her precious daughter, Carrie-Ann.

Drawing in a long, deep breath, Hawke forced himself to walk closer, coming to a stop at Carrie's neat grave, noted the flowers already lying there, wilting and already beginning to turn brown, with a brief frown, wondering who else was left now to remember, as he bent his head, briefly, before squatting down and with shaking fingers, laid his single floral tribute on the grave.

Just being here, again, made it all come rushing back to him, the memories buffeting him like the mountainous waves of a riptide, threatening to engulf him.

He spent several minutes in silent contemplation, his mind replaying the events of that day, over and over, tormenting him with every minute detail, and he allowed his tears to flow freely, for this one day, her birthday and the anniversary of death, was the only time he allowed himself to remember, to grieve, subconsciously accepting that it was because of this one day every year, this pilgrimage to this place, on that day, that he could live through the rest of the year with some semblance of normality.

This the only time he could face coming here at all.

It never got any easier.

Never.

In all the years he had been coming here, like this.

So many years now.

If only the tears cleansed, yet even after they were shed there was little in the way of relief.

At least he was able to come here.

At least here was a place to come to be close to her once more, to focus his grief, and his memories, at Carrie's graveside, which was something that he could not do for his beloved brother, St John.

As he poured out his grief, Hawke could not get the recent conversation that he had had with his old friend, Dominic Santini out of his head.

His old friend was aware of the significance of the day that was approaching and had offered to come with Hawke to the cemetery, but the younger man had flatly refused, knowing that this was something that he had to face alone, that he would always have to face alone, for he could not bare anyone to see the pain and heartache and anger, the bitterness and self loathing that still consumed him.

Santini had stopped him as he was trying to get away from the hangar last night, effectively blocking his path as he had discreetly let his young friend know that he knew what day was looming and that if he needed someone to share the day with, he would be more than happy to bear that burden.

"I'd kinda like to pay my respects …. I loved her too, ya know …." Santini had told him solemnly, his rheumy grey eyes regarding his young friend with concern, taking in the pinched, pained expression on his handsome young face, and the deep sadness haunting his sky blue eyes. "I can't believe it's been sixteen years. She'd be what? Thirty four now? Say, do you remember the time …."

A huge smile had split the older man's face as some happy memory had suddenly popped into his head, but then Santini's voice had trailed away immediately he had noticed the harsh expression on his young friend's face.

"Do you think it's the _only _time I ever remember?" Hawke had ground out bitterly at Santini's innocent question, and fixed his hard, cold, blue eyes on Dominic Santini, as he spoke, letting out a heart wrenching sigh.

"Dammit, Dom, I remember every minute of every single day I spent with her, and there is not a day that goes by when I don't think about her …. About what she would be like now, what she would be doing with her life, what we would be doing, _together_. It's just that _this_ day, the anniversary of her death …. That is the one day that I can justify giving in to the need to cry into my beer," he had sighed again.

"On this day I'm allowed to grieve and feel sad and angry and bitter," his voice had trailed away.

Dominic Santini had been impressed.

For Hawke that was quite an eloquent speech.

That in its self spoke volumes.

"Says who, huh? Who says that's the only time you're allowed to show your true feelings?" Santini had demanded angrily. "And why does it have to be with sorrow and anger and bitterness and grief that you remember her?" Santini had persisted, despite the warning glower that had settled on Hawke's face.

"I'm sorry, String, but don't you see, _this_ is what I've been trying to tell you for a long time. You weren't the only one who knew Carrie …. And you weren't the only one who loved her. It's been hard for the rest of us to have to hold our tongues, because we know how much it hurts you to speak of her."

This remark had drawn Hawke's brooding gaze once more.

"I guess you hadn't thought about that, huh?" Santini had retorted.

"I guess not," Hawke had admitted in a gruff voice.

"We should be able to share the memories together, String. I was there too, remember? I loved her too. Like a daughter. The two of you were my world, and it broke my heart too when she died, and there have been times when my poor old heart has been bustin' with grief and anger and sorrow …. Times, when I have really needed to talk about her, with someone who knew her. But …."

"I wouldn't let that someone be _me_."

"Who else is there left? String, didn't you ever hear that thing, the Chinese or some such, believe, that so long as one person remembers you, you will never die? It means remembering the good things too, kid."

"I'm sorry Dom," Hawke had sighed deeply and Santini had known that the younger man meant it.

Hawke had been so wrapped up in his own pain, and trying to live with the loss and the grief, that he hadn't been able to think about anyone else, or even see that there was someone there, right beside him, to share the burden with.

"She was so full of life, String. The two of you made so many good and happy memories together, but you don't seem able to let yourself find any happiness or pleasure in them."

Hawke had known that Santini was right.

"Yes her life was short, sure, son, but she made a huge impression and she filled her own life, and so many others with so much love. She made every day count. Wasn't she the one who made you see that instead of being jinxed, you were lucky? Blessed? You were a survivor."

Santini had taken a breath and ploughed on.

"We should celebrate the fact that she came into our life, no matter how briefly, and changed it for the better. She was so funny and so smart, so beautiful. Not to even be able to speak her name .… All these years, String, it's broken my heart."

Santini's voice had cracked momentarily.

"But, I also had to respect your wishes. And your reaction to her name …. Well, it was like you had been punched in the gut over and over. I couldn't do it to ya, kid. And, then you got this crazy notion in your head, that you're some kind of jinx. You forgot what Carrie made you believe, and you stopped listening to me altogether …."

"So, I'm a stupid sonofa …."

"Language," Dominic had sighed, shaking his head gently. "But something we agree on at last …."

"I didn't forget …."

"No?"

"I just didn't _want_ to _remember_, Dom. How can I believe that I am _blessed_? _Lucky_? When all the people I love get hurt ... Die ..."

"Son, you gotta stop thinking like this. Thinking that way will destroy you, String," Santini had sighed, casting his sad grey eyes down, briefly. "I love you, kid. I've loved you for a lot of years, and by your reckoning, I should be dead, many times over ..."

"Would you rather that you had died, when your folks drowned?" Santini had looked back at him at last, finally asking the one question that Hawke knew the older man had always dreaded voicing, because he thought that he already knew the answer.

"Maybe it would have been better. Maybe Carrie would still be alive? She wouldn't have been in that Jeep with me. And Sinjin? Maybe they would have found room for him on that chopper, if I hadn't already been picked up?"

Dominic Santini had placed his arm gently around the younger man's shoulders, drawing him close for a brief hug then had gently put him away, and Hawke had seen the tears shimmering in those familiar, grey eyes.

"If you had died with your folks, then I would have missed out on watching you grow into a wonderful young man. And Carrie, she would have missed out on falling in love for the first time in her life, with that same wonderful young man, and, as for Sinjin, I don't even want to think about that …. Hell son, I could have lost you both in that Godless place, and how would I have gotten over that? The grief would have killed me, son, no kidding."

The sincerity in Dominic Santini's voice had touched a chord deep down inside Stringfellow Hawke, and he had felt his heart constrict in his chest.

This man, this dear man had been a huge part of his life, a huge influence, having no small part in making him the man that he was proud to be.

An honourable, decent, loyal and just man.

He loved him dearly, and valued his friendship and his love, but Hawke had known deep down in his heart that Dominic did not really understand how he felt about this, and that he never could.

"You're still alive, String, and you have to start making a life for yourself now, while you're still young enough to enjoy it," Santini had told him solemnly. "I won't always be around, kid, and it tears me apart to think of you living out the rest of your days alone …."

His voiced had trailed away again then, but Stringfellow Hawke had seen quite clearly in Santini's eyes what he had left unsaid.

His very real fear, that once he too was gone, there would be nothing left for Stringfellow Hawke to live for.

The older man need not worry.

Stringfellow Hawke would continue to live, simply because it was his punishment to do so, alone, loveless, his heart, empty and shrivelled and bitter, continuing to beat in his chest, as penance for the life he had taken this day sixteen years before ….


	2. Chapter 2

Lost in memories and grief, Stringfellow Hawke was unaware that he was no longer alone, as a young woman clad in faded denim jeans, sneakers and a bright yellow T-Shirt, clutching a bunch of freshly cut gaily coloured flowers to her bosom, crested the hill and came to an abrupt halt, as she spotted the man squatting beside the grave.

For an instant, a frown pulled at her brow, not recognising the figure clad in a nicely cut, good quality dark charcoal grey suit, but then she drew in a gentle breath as she realised that there was only one person that it could be.

Silently, she stood by and watched, her eyes filling with tears as she took in the scene before her, the young man, squatting beside Carrie's grave, head bowed, shoulders shaking gently, and she knew that she was right.

It had been so long since she had last seen him.

Stringfellow Hawke.

Of course, she knew that he came here.

She had always known that the solitary long stem white rose that showed up on Carrie's grave this day each year had come from him, and had always regretted that their paths had never crossed.

Until today.

This was why they had not met here before. He obviously came early, deliberately so, she speculated, so that he would not encounter anyone else on his pilgrimage.

She could understand his need to come, to be alone with his grief, but, she also suspected that there was another reason why he wanted to avoid the possibility of running into any of Carrie's family.

Her heart went out to him now, for it was obvious to her that the man was still overwhelmed by grief.

And guilt.

It was as she had always suspected.

_Poor String._

She quickly wiped away her tears now, as she watched Hawke rise agilely to his feet and tilt his head back, thrusting out that wonderful strong chin of his as he drew in a long, ragged, shoulder raising breath.

Hawke saw her immediately he turned around, and let out a startled gasp, shocked to realise that he hadn't been alone, and stunned to find him self suddenly looking into the familiar features of his beloved Carrie-Ann.

Peeling off his shades, eyes widening in shock and disbelief, at first he thought he was seeing a ghost, an apparition conjured out of grief and guilt, but then, suddenly the young woman was smiling softly at him and striding toward him with her arms outstretched.

"String? Stringfellow Hawke, is that really you?"

Her voice was different, Hawke found himself thinking absently as he took in the slender frame, long legs and slender waist clad in jeans and bright yellow T-shirt, the long, flowing blonde hair loose around her shoulders and floating in the early morning breeze, the deep topaz blue eyes, sparkling prettily and the soft smile tugging at her lips, as she closed the gap between them, cradling the bunch of flowers in the crook of her arm as she reached out to take both of his hands in her own and squeezed them softly.

Soft, warm hands, real flesh and blood, not some ghostly apparition after all, the dumbfounded Hawke realised as he pulled himself together quickly.

Not Carrie-Ann Miller, he realised, but her younger sister, Francesca.

Frankie.

She could have been Carrie's twin, Hawke found himself thinking as she continued to regard him curiously, smiling, those familiar blue eyes soft and understanding, and he noted, a little bright from recently shed tears ….

So, this was how Carrie would have looked today, had she lived, Hawke found himself thinking.

She was beautiful.

Francesca Miller had been four years younger than Carrie, and even then the likeness had been striking, despite the braces on her teeth and the ravages of acne she was always so sensitive about ….

Hawke had always liked Frankie.

Despite the difference in their ages, she and Carrie had gotten along like a house on fire, and Carrie had always insisted that when he came to her house, he treated her sister in the same way that he treated her.

They had soon become firm friends, finding a common interest in music and playing the guitar, which Carrie had had absolutely no aptitude for, and instead of resenting her always being around, Hawke had enjoyed her company, revelling in her open adoration of him, and her deep affection for Carrie, discovering what it felt like to have a sister for the first time in his life.

Hawke had been able to see in Francesca Miller the same love for her older sister that he had for his older brother, St John, and could empathise with her need to be just like Carrie-Ann.

Frankie had loved having him around.

Indeed, the whole Miller family had welcomed him with open arms, as the son they had never been blessed with, and he had felt very much at home, and loved amongst them.

"Frankie?" He spoke her name softly, his voice rough and ragged with emotion, and she nodded at him, eyes suddenly filling with tears as she reached out to him and pulled him close in a swift, fierce hug.

"I'm sorry, String, you must have thought you were seeing a ghost …." She breathed into his ear then pulled away, grinning and weeping all at the same time as she suddenly remembered the flowers in her arms, being crushed between them.

She released her hold on him, reluctantly, gazing long and hard at his familiar face, then finally stepped around him so that she could place the flowers on her sister's grave.

"Happy birthday, Car …." She spoke in a low, reverent voice, but there was a gentle smile on her lips, and then she was rising quickly, turning back to look at him once more, her hand reaching out to take one of his, obviously not wanting him to escape just yet.

"It's been a long time …." She kept her tone neutral, not wanting him to think it an admonishment, or a reprimand, or even an accusation. "You look good ..." She grinned now as a lone tear slipped between her lashes and trickled down her cheek to drip off the end of her chin.

He did too, she acknowledged.

Older, but still ruggedly handsome, with those strong features she remembered so well.

He looked healthy, but there was something in his eyes that tugged at her heart, and not just the telltale signs of his recent bout of weeping.

"You too …." He spoke softly, his expression softening just a little as he looked at her more closely now, wondering how he could possibly have forgotten Carrie's little sister, Frankie. "You're so like her ..." His voice suddenly trailed away as he realised what he was saying.

"I know." Frankie sighed softly. "For years I did everything that I could not to look like Car …. It was too upsetting for my parents, like seeing a ghost walk through the door every day. I cut my hair really short, dyed it black, then red, anything except my natural blonde, just so that it wouldn't break their hearts every time they saw me …." She confided raggedly, and Hawke found himself wondering just what it had cost her, to not be able to be herself for fear of upsetting her family, simply because she looked so much like her dead sister.

His expression grew tight now and Frankie found herself frowning at the look on his face.

She recognised it immediately.

Self loathing.

Suddenly she understood.

Poor Hawke, still blaming himself, still beating himself up, still full of guilt and shame and anger ….

He probably thought that she should hate him, because he had taken from her family their most precious gift.

"String …." She slipped her arm through his now and gave it a gentle tug. "Walk with me a little?" She invited, tugging on his forearm once more, and reluctantly, he nodded.

She could feel the tension in him, wound up so tight he could barely breathe, every muscle and sinew in his forearm taut and hard beneath her fingers, he was holding himself so rigidly.

They walked in silence for a little while, Frankie holding on to his arm lightly, Hawke lost for words, stupid, glib, insensitive things like 'It's nice here,' and 'Do you come here often?' the only things he could think to say, and knowing that they were wholly inappropriate.

At last they approached a low wooden bench, set back slightly off the path and applying light pressure to his arm, Frankie guided Hawke over to the bench and sat down, pulling him down gently beside her, still holding on to his hand.

"You have to let it go, String …."

As soon as the words were out of her mouth, Stringfellow Hawke turned to her sharply, his expression hard and tight and angry, his top lip twisted into something akin to a snarl as he opened his mouth to protest, but something in her expression stopped him.

He expected to see anger, hatred, resentment, in her eyes, but instead, all he saw was love and understanding.

"You have to quit blaming yourself," she told him earnestly, her lovely blue eyes never leaving his handsome face. "Sixteen years is a long time to be carrying that guilt around, String, especially when there is no blame to be placed on you," she squeezed his hand gently now.

"It wasn't your fault. We always knew that, String. When the police came to break the news, the first thing they did was tell us that it was the other driver's fault," she explained gently.

"My folks always knew that Car was safe when she was out with you, String. They knew that you would always take care of her, because you loved her," her voice caught in her throat, briefly, but all Stringfellow Hawke could do was sit in stunned silence, not knowing what to say to her.

This was the very last thing that he expected.

All these years he had avoided any contact with the Millers, not wanting to see their anger and their grief and their bitterness that he was still alive.

His perception had always been that they would hate him for living when Carrie had died. After all, what was so special about him? That he should continue to live and breathe and have a long and happy life, a wife, and perhaps a family of his own one day, when their beautiful, vibrant and vivacious child had had her life snuffed out so abruptly, denying them the prospect of seeing her married too, settled and raising her own small brood of children …. Their grandchildren ….

"They were just as anxious about you as they were about Carrie," Frankie continued now, frowning as she watched the play of emotions crossing Hawke's face, feeling the slight tremor of his hand against her own, wondering just what it was that was going through his mind at that moment.

"Mom was beside herself, but once he got over the initial shock, my Dad wanted to go straight to the hospital to see how you were. He needed to know that you weren't badly hurt, but by the time he got there, Mr Santini had already been by and taken you home …."

This piece of information was news to Hawke, and he was stunned to realise that despite the fact that his beautiful, beloved daughter had just been killed, Tom Miller's thoughts had been for his health and welfare too.

How could that be?

The man should have been about ready to kill him, not worried about how badly hurt he had been ….

It had never occurred to him that the Miller family might have been just as concerned about him as they would have been about Carrie-Ann.

He had wrapped himself up in guilt and told himself that they would and should hate him, that quite rightly they would hold him responsible for Carrie's death, forgetting all the love and friendship and support that they had heaped upon him until that awful moment.

He should have realised that instead of hating him, they would have wanted to be there for him too.

"You were a big part of our family for a long time, String, and then suddenly, you were gone. It was like you died that day too ..." Frankie let out a long, ragged breath and he could see tears brimming in her eyes now, making them seem an even deeper blue.

"My parents lost a son, and I lost a brother, as well as Carrie-Ann that day. Oh, we understood, String. We knew that you must be shocked, and that you would feel awkward around us …. But we were all so glad to see you at the funeral …. I can't tell you that we weren't just a little bewildered and hurt when you rushed off without saying a word, but we understood. We could see your pain, String, and we recognised the dark, lonely place you were in ..." She paused to draw in a soft breath.

"We were also aware that you had to go back to the Army, that you had a duty to fulfil, but we always hoped that one day, when you were ready, you would come back to us. We missed you so very much, String. You didn't need to stay away …. And I'm so sorry that you felt that you had no other choice ..."

Hawke watched now as the tears rolled unhindered down her cheeks, his heart constricting in his chest as it suddenly occurred to him that perhaps he had only made the grief worse for this woman and her family, by not facing up to them, by staying away, by making them mourn for the loss of his friendship in their lives as well as the death of their daughter and sister.

As he had mourned the loss of their love and friendship, the loss of his new family, from his life, as well as Carrie-Ann and all that she had represented.

Guilt and shame had made him turn away from the people who needed him, and who could have helped him to come to terms with his grief too.

"We didn't blame you, String. We didn't hate you …." She told him emphatically now, her long delicate fingers squeezing his larger, work roughened tanned hand, her beautiful blue eyes boring into him.

"We were disappointed in you," she hung her head briefly now, and when she looked back up at him, a wry half smile was tugging at her lips.

"We were disappointed that you didn't feel able to come to us and share your grief and pain. Disappointed and hurt that you didn't give us a chance to tell you that we didn't hold you responsible, that we still loved you, and that there would always be a place for you with us, if you wanted it. We thought you knew what you meant to all of us, String, not just Carrie. And we were disappointed with ourselves. We thought that we had somehow failed you, that perhaps we didn't love you enough, because you didn't feel able to turn to us."

"The fact that you seemed to deliberately shut us out of your life hurt us much more than losing Carrie, String. You were another person we could talk to about her, share memories of her with, to remember her with love and laughter and happiness, to help us to keep her alive in our hearts and minds, but you denied us, and yourself, that chance to heal …."

She paused to draw in a long, cleansing breath then and Hawke felt his heart skip a beat in his chest.

This was what Dominic had been trying to tell him too, Hawke realised, and he also began to realise the mistake he had made in not facing up to Tom and Marion Miller.

He had projected his own feelings of guilt and shame on to them, not wanting to see the anger and bitterness and resentment in their eyes whenever they looked at him, but, in reality, those things had never been in their eyes.

"We loved you. All of us. We never stopped loving you, String, and when we heard that you'd lost Sinjn too …. We thought that perhaps then you would come to us at last …. That we could be there to help you through your pain …." Her voice trailed away briefly, as she drew in another soft breath.

"Your shutting us out really hurt us, String, but in the end we all came to realise that it was your way of coping with the pain. I guess we had to accept that we were all just too painful a reminder of Carrie and what she meant to you …. What you meant to each other, and what you had hoped to share in the future …."

Frankie grew silent then, but she tightened her grip on Hawke's hand, trying to reassure him that he was not alone in the pain and grief that he had felt, but also wanting him to realise that it was way past time that he moved on and got on with living his life.

"It's time to forgive yourself, and move on String," Frankie told him softly now, squeezing his hand once more, drawing his sad blue eyes back to her face.

"Car wouldn't have wanted you to go on feeling sad, or to keep beating yourself up, or to live out the rest of your life feeling guilty. She was full of love and life, and that was why she was attracted to you too, String, because she saw the same things in you."

"You didn't steal her life away from her, String, and you don't have to give up your own hopes and dreams of happiness to atone for her death. These are the things my parents would have told you all those years ago, if you had just trusted them ..."

Frankie turned to him now, her arms coming around him to draw him close in a fierce hug.

"Time to start being good to yourself, String Bean …." She held him tightly, smiling affectionately as she used the nickname she had given to him all those years ago because he was so tall and skinny, pulling him to her warm body and pressing her soft, warm lips to his cheek.

Suddenly Stringfellow Hawke found him self smiling softly too, immediately transported back to a time when they had played guitar duets and she had teased him when he messed up a chord ….

Sitting in the Miller's family living room with Carrie watching them both, a loving smile on her lips as she took in their banter and teasing, so pleased with her self for finding such a handsome, funny and charming guy who fitted in so perfectly with her already happy family.

_String Bean …._

It had been so long ….

Happier days.

He felt tears stinging in his eyes once more, and he was glad that she could not see.

"Quit being so selfish, huh …." Frankie was patting his back gently now and Hawke found him self frowning at her words, as pulled back from her embrace to regard her expression curiously.

He hadn't expected that.

However, again all he found in her eyes and in her expression was understanding and love.

"You're not just denying yourself happiness, String," she grinned at him now. "But some very lucky young lady too …. You are still a very handsome young man, Stringfellow Hawke, with so much to offer any woman, so stop hiding yourself away from the world, and give yourself permission to be happy."

She pulled him close once more, and this time, Hawke found himself wrapping his arms around her too, pulling her close to him, feeling her warm slender body relax in his arms and her hand come up to cup the back of his head, lightly stroking his hair.

They held each other for several long minutes and when they finally drew apart there were tears coursing down both of their faces, but, now both wore genuine smiles.

"Do you remember the time when …."

For so many years, they had been words that Stringfellow Hawke had hated with a passion, but now he found himself recalling the day Frankie was talking about, not with heartache and anger and bitterness, but with genuine fondness and pleasure.

As he listened to her recount the tale from their youth, the day that he and Carrie-Ann had decided to help her parents to paint the outside of their house, and he had almost fallen off the roof while helping Tom to paint the eaves, Stringfellow Hawke found himself relaxing and enjoying the memories that came flooding back, recalling the huge grin Carrie had had on her lovely face when he had come back down wearing most of the pot of paint on his jeans, a dopey expression on his face and Tom and Marion Miller fussing over him, making sure that he hadn't broken any bones as he swung off the roof trying to get back to the ladder ….

As he revelled in the rush of emotion, all of it pleasant and warm, Hawke realised that he should have done this a long time ago, that his memories of Carrie-Ann Miller should have been fond and happy and filling him with warmth and love and happiness, for it was how she deserved to be remembered, not with anger and pain.

He should remember her beautiful smile, and her dancing blue eyes, the warmth of her embrace and the sweetness of her lips against his own.

Those should be his last memories of her, not her beauty destroyed in the twisted wreck of the Jeep.

She had been the most beautiful, vibrant and vivacious person he had ever known, so full of hope and expectation, so full of life, and that was how she deserved to be remembered.

She had filled his life with joy and his heart with love.

That was what he should cling on to.

Hawke realised as he watched Frankie throw back her head and roar with laughter, fresh tears of mirth coursing down her cheeks now, that this was what her family had wanted to share with him. The happy times, of which there had been so many, and he regretted that in focusing on the fact that her life had been so tragically cut short, he had denied them all the chance to celebrate Carrie's life together with fond memories of halcyon days.

Frankie was right.

Deep down in his heart, Stringfellow Hawke knew that he had not been to blame for Carrie's death, had long ago accepted that there had been nothing more that he could have done to save her, but the guilt and shame, the self loathing and anger had become familiar things to cling on to, better than the empty numbness that had engulfed him in the days following the accident. They had given him a purpose, something to focus on to get through each new day, and he had done the same thing when St John had gone missing.

Was still doing it, to this day.

Perhaps it was time to let go of the guilt.

Perhaps it was time to forgive him self, time to be good to himself, and as Frankie had just said, give himself permission to be happy.

Before it was too late.

Frankie watched Stringfellow Hawke beginning to relax as she over exaggerated her tale from their youth, laughing so hard she could hardly get her breath, marvelling at that wonderful, familiar smile now curving at his lips, shyly at first, but growing wider as he too remembered that happy day so long ago, and she found her self hoping that she really had gotten through to him, because it would be such a pity if he carried on feeling so badly about Carrie's death.

She knew better than anyone how much her sister had loved this man, and how deeply upset Carrie would have been to see him so unhappy because of her.

No-one knew for sure what the future might have held for Carrie and String, but Frankie knew that had Fate decreed that they not be meant to spend the rest of their lives together, if, once he had returned from Vietnam, they had discovered that they no longer had anything in common, that each had grown up and moved on, her sister would not have wanted String to be lonely. She would not have wanted to deny some other fortunate girl the chance to be happy with him and to make him happy too.

Eventually, after many more tears and much gentle laughter, catching up on old times, reluctantly Frankie allowed Hawke to help her to her feet, and together they walked, arm in arm, back toward Carrie-Ann Miller's grave, where they stood, still locked arm in arm, in respectful silence for a few minutes before each saying their silent farewells, they turned and began to walk back toward the parking lot.

"Don't be a stranger now, ya hear?" Frankie reached up and planted another soft kiss on Hawke's cheek. "And don't you forget what I told you. You still have a family, String, if you want us. Mom and Dad are gone now, yes, but I have my little family …." He arched his eyebrow now in puzzlement.

"I didn't get chance to say, did I? I married Kevin Reynolds …." She grinned mischievously now, as Hawke recalled his one time rival for Carrie's affections all those years ago.

The football Quarterback had always seemed to be hanging around, unfazed by Hawke's presence at Carrie's side and Hawke now recalled that Carrie had been very smug and pleased with herself for attracting the attentions of the two most popular and attractive guys in school ….

"Seems it was really me he fancied after all," Frankie chuckled, and it was a warm, natural, pleasant sound. "We have two boys and a girl, all of whom are in desperate need of an indulgent surrogate uncle …. I think you fit that bill just fine, String Bean," grinning, she reached up and kissed him one last time.

"I heard you went back to work with Mr Santini, over at Santini Air ..." She indicated to where he had parked the patriotically painted Jeep, and Hawke nodded softly, slipping his arms around her waist as she drew back from him at last. "I'm glad. He was your only family back then ….

"Still is …."

"May I call you there?" She asked softly reaching up to cup his cheek tenderly, and Hawke found himself pulling her close one last time.

"Sure, Frankie," he leaned down to press his lips to her cheek in a light, tender, brotherly fashion.

"Good. Then that's a promise …. Dinner, first chance we get. Think about what I said, String …. You know I'm right …." Frankie drew away again at last, and this time she stepped away from him and began to walk across the parking lot taking the path that ran behind the chapel building and out onto the street, where he spotted her heading toward a beaten up old push bicycle parked against the railing, and he realised that she must have used the other entrance to get into the cemetery and had not spotted the Jeep parked in the parking lot.

Hawke watched her go, and realised that she had given him much food for thought, a different perspective to the one he had always had, and instead of heading back to Santini Air, for it was his usual practice after this little pilgrimage to borrow a chopper and head for the lake to brood and shut himself away with his black thoughts, Stringfellow Hawke climbed back into the Santini Air Jeep and drove out to a lonely stretch of beach, the place where he and Carrie-Ann had shared their very first kiss, and had walked hand in hand in the surf, giggling and plotting their future, sure that they could look forward to a long and happy life together.

As he watched the surf pound against the shore, the golden sunlight dancing on the constantly moving ocean, Stringfellow Hawke was finally able to remember the beautiful girl he had loved so passionately, with a gentle smile and a lighter heart, seeing her in his mind's eye as she had been that last day, before the accident, in that gorgeous pale lavender dress, her mane of long blonde hair loose, and flowing wildly behind her, her beautiful topaz eyes shining with love for him and with excitement and the sheer joy of living, knowing that _this _was how she would have wanted to remain in his memory for the rest of his life.

His beautiful Carrie-Ann, alive and happy... And loving him with all her heart, just as he had and always would love her too.


End file.
